Shopping While Black: Why I’m No Longer Afraid to Call Time on Racial Profiling

When you think of retail snobbery, Pretty Woman is often the first thing that comes to mind. Julia Roberts’s Vivian, the prototype for all hookers with a heart of gold, struts into a luxury boutique wearing thigh-high boots, a revealing minidress, and bedhead waves, only to be turned away by stuck-up salesgirls. Twenty minutes and one makeover later, she returns to the store looking like she just stepped off an ’80s fashion runway—hair pinned back beneath a wide-brim hat, shoulder pads bulging—reminding the shop assistants who snubbed her that they work on commission. “Big mistake,” she announces, brandishing a collection of shopping bags from other, presumably friendlier, boutiques. “Huge!”

The scene hinges on wish fulfillment. Who hasn’t wanted to set the story straight when they’ve been wronged? It also taps into the long-held fantasy of the retail experience as transformative and powerful, a dream that can be yours if only you show up in the right clothes.

The reality for black and brown shoppers is often a lot harsher. Back in 2013, I was on the hunt for a pair of Céline sneakers, coveted by many fashion lovers, including my sister Joanna. After ringing up the usual suspects—Céline’s Madison Avenue store and Barneys New York—to no avail, I decided to look downtown to a Soho store with a hallowed reputation. Sure enough it had one pair left in my sister’s size. I asked if they could hold it for me, and I prepared to head to the store on my lunch break. Over the phone, the male associate was kind and knowledgeable, chitchatting with me about the collection and its memorable brushstroke motifs, assuring me that my purchase was not only chic but a wise investment.

Conversations like these are part of the luxury package. A good sales associate can charm you and empty your wallet under the guise of friendship. What you buy into when you’re willing to spend $600 on a pair of sneakers goes beyond the item itself—you’re there to be a part of something. Community—the idea that there are people who care as much as you do—is what justifies the price and the lengths you’ll go to acquire your fashion prize.

This particular shopping trip was marred by bad weather, one of those foggy New York days where moisture is ever present, making it impossible to look truly polished. Joined by my close friend Kegan, we hoofed it onto the 3 train, then walked through the mist. We arrived before the afternoon rush, so the store was relatively empty. There we were, two young black professionals searching for the luxury object of our affection. Our presence was immediately felt. The moment we walked in, a sales associate broke away from the group huddled by the doorway and began shadowing our every move. A young woman with bee-stung lips and a mildly agitated look, she glared at us as we browsed the space. Kegan was nonplussed, but I withered in response. I wanted to emulate his cool demeanor, to be resilient and unbothered, but the undue scrutiny brought out my nervousness. Though we’re long past the days of Jim Crow segregation signs, I know what it’s like to feel singled out and unwelcome. In that moment, I felt small and powerless.

Still, I continued to peruse the racks at a leisurely pace—pretending to be blissfully unaware of surveillance can be a useful tactic. After all, if someone is hell-bent on racially profiling me, I believe they ought to get their day’s cardio, too. Though we’d yet to exchange words, I could feel the tension mounting, small huffs emitting from the salesperson as I checked out the season’s new Givenchy bag. As I continued to ignore her presence, she finally broke the silence: “Can I help you?”

Disdain often simmers beneath the chilly veneer of civility. “Can I help you?” can be code for: “What are you doing here?” “See yourself out,” and “You can’t afford it.” The underlying message wasn’t lost on me, but I had a promise to keep to my sister. I took the weaponized politeness she’d directed at me and fired back, informing her that I had called ahead and reserved a pair of Céline sneakers, if only she’d be kind enough to find them for me. Though she clenched her jaw and forced a smile, I assumed the worst was over.

As she headed to the back room, I positioned myself at the counter and felt conflicting pangs of guilt churn in my stomach. Perhaps things would have gone smoother had I dressed up, worn one of the luxury items in my wardrobe. Or maybe I would have done better ordering over the phone, avoiding a place that clearly didn’t want people like me around to begin with. The urge to simply turn on my heels and take my money elsewhere was there, too. And yet, there I stood.

To my surprise, the store’s owner came over to join her colleague behind the register. I had seen her in countless street style photos looking gamine in artfully mismatched prints. While in college, I’d applied for an internship at this very boutique, and though I didn’t get it, I’d always held her, and the store, in high regard as an influential fashion star behind the scenes. For the briefest moment, I was elated, happy that an otherwise aggravating experience could be improved by what was, in my book, a celebrity sighting.

When I presented my credit card, they took turns looking at it, as if inspecting the plastic surface for flaws. I was then asked to present two forms of identification and met with a dual sneer when I pulled my passport out of my purse. At first I wondered if this was simply store policy, though later, after asking a few of my white friends who also frequented the boutique, I learned that this was hardly standard practice. They spoke quietly among themselves, assessing my value. We then stood in silence, each woman waiting for the other to blink, as the card reader did its work.

I left the second they rang me up, marched out into the rain with Kegan and onto an uptown train. We laughed about the experience on our way back to the office, comparing notes about which staff member was ruder and whether it was any worse than what we’d encountered on a work trip to Paris a year earlier, where the sales associates are notoriously brusque. I put on a brave face, but deep down I was seething.

When I presented my sister with the shoes that evening, she was delighted, thrilled that I’d found the sneakers she’d spent months searching for. We shared the snapshot on Instagram, enjoying the way her shoes looked next to my bag on our coffee table—a tableau of consumerism in the middle of our living room. I would go on to borrow the shoes during Paris Fashion Week, the narrow widths carving blisters into my heels. The words love and life etched up the back of each sneaker seemed obnoxiously optimistic, given the indignity I had suffered to obtain them.

I have traded similar stories with my black friends over the years. Though some fought back via arguments or tersely worded Yelp reviews, most dealt with the situation in private. Now that microaggressions like these are being brought to light on social media, the conversation is opening up. But I often wonder exactly how much has changed. Brands may fill their campaigns with a racially diverse cast of models and position themselves as inclusive, but a trip to their stores tells a different story. The frequency at which racial profiling occurs is still shocking, each slight a drop in the bucket, an almost daily occurrence that we expect and shrug off.

I have passed the aforementioned store owner many times in the five years since the incident took place. We’ve shared the same elevator while leaving fashion shows and breezed past each other on the way to appointments. She does not appear to remember me or that day, nor do I suspect she will recognize herself in this story. I did not walk back into her store in a suit with shoulder pads to announce that they’d lost a good customer. There is no outfit change in the world that would make me less black, less fat, in her eyes.

I no longer go into stores where I feel uncomfortable, or purchase from brands that drill that kind of behavior into their employees. When a salesman at a popular beauty establishment commented that my name sounded “tribal” or a clerk at a Fifth Avenue establishment informed me upon entry that they don’t carry anything “someone like me would be interested in,” I asked to speak to the manager. The hesitation I once felt about clapping back is now nonexistent, and though I’ve made peace with my desire for nice things versus society’s biases, I have to wonder at the continued prevalence of these attitudes. With retail in a slump and consumers heading online, ignoring the problem seems like a big mistake—huge.